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My mirror is mocking me again. You call that a haircut? Looks like you stood too close to a weed-eater! Six weeks ago, it taunted me: Having chemically dependent hair is one thing, but that color belongs on a fire truck!
In fact, every time I return home from the salon, my reflection sings the same refrain: Is that the best she can do? As comedian Phyllis Diller once said, "Mirror, mirror on the wall … I don't want to hear it." Even if it is the truth.
Confession time: I haven't been completely happy with my hair for years. Oh, there were a few days back in 1988 when I thought we'd really hit on something, but the rest of the time it's too long, too short, too curly, too flat, too red, too blonde, or decidedly too gray—though that last one isn't my stylist's fault.
Neither is the fact that my locks are thinning on top. Blame that on over-forty hormones and wimpy genes. Since "the very hairs on my head are all numbered," I take solace in assuming that hairs #472 through #628 have simply gone on to glory ahead of schedule.
But as for the cutting and styling itself—that's where I depend on Carol. I've known her longer than I've known my husband. Our paths crossed in 1984, and I've faithfully sat in her chair ever since. When Carol switched salons, I followed her across town. "Wither thou goest, I will go," I assured her.
Who wouldn't declare lifelong loyalty to someone who combines her amateur therapist skills with the latest techniques in blunt cutting? Carol patiently listened through my career and dating woes, nodding sympathetically as her scissors snipped away. Those were the perm years—natural color, unnatural curl. Then when hubby-to-be Bill came into my life, Carol and I dumped the perm in favor of longer locks to please my sweetie. Months later, it was Carol who styled the tresses of my wedding party, and Carol again who gave me a pedicure the week before my first child was slated to arrive, so I'd have fashionable toes in the delivery room.
Talk about a labor of love!
Our relationship isn't one-sided, either. I sang at Carol's wedding and rejoiced when she began taking college courses at night. We've laughed, cried, and compared notes on husbands, kids, and cleaning services. You can't simply walk away from that kind of dual commitment over something as frivolous as a few frizzy perms or doubtful dye-jobs.
Besides, the mere thought of trying a new stylist gives me the willies! Make that "will-hes," as in "Will he understand about my sparse spots?" or "Will she ever figure out how to tame that strange cowlick in the back?" Someone else might do a better job, but then again … what if it's worse? What if my hair comes out five different lengths and three different colors?
Hey, it can happen. Carol once had to rescue a poor high-school senior who'd had his hair dyed purple to match his prom tux. He spent five hours (and untold dollars) in her chair while she corrected another stylist's "Nightmare-in-Violet" creation.
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